56. Poisoned Apple

Rafael had not intended to watch Adrea’s game. When he had somehow ended up on the channel the poker match was being broadcast, he had told himself he would change the channel in a minute. But he had not. A minute had compounded into more than an hour.

When the final hands were played out and the audience gasped, he found himself frozen in front of the screen, the remote untouched on the coffee table.

Adrea had looked radiant. Like she belonged on a throne. Her smile when she had flipped her cards, that controlled flick of the wrist, the way her eyes didn't even widen as the royal flush came together — it all hit him like a slow punch to the gut.

This was the version of her he had forgotten existed. Not the careful wife who made polite conversation at social dinners. Not the woman who had gone silent without him noticing. No — this was the Adrea he had seen at those cruises with her father. Fearless. Clever. Alive.

He had found himself leaning forward, elbows on knees, as the camera c